The Tin Soldier's Tale.

The tiny tin soldier,
With the crystal glass heart,
Made from rust and ancient cogs,
He would not wear apart.

He saw a ballerina,
Where she stood upon her stand,
Saw her graceful arabesque,
The limpness of her hand.

He knew he'd never have a chance,
This soldier with his rust,
With his creaking joints and running paint,
He looked and inside, cussed.

If only she could see him back,
But no, she danced again,
And nothing but this icy queen,
Could cause our man such pain.

He swore he'd get a lick of paint,
But he did not know when,
And so he watched her, idly,
And watched and watched till then.